I dare not spoil this spotless page
With any feeble verse of mine;
The Poet's fire has lost its rage,
Around his lyre no myrtles twine.
The voice of fame cannot recal
Those fairy days of past delight,
When pleasure seem'd to welcome all,
And morning hail'd a welcome night.
E'en love has lost its soothing power,
Its spells no more can chain my soul;
I must not venture in the bower,
Where Wit and Verse and Wine controul.
And yet, I fear, in thoughtless mirth
I once did say, Eliza, dear!
That I would tell the world thy worth,
And write the living record here.
Come Love, and Truth, and Friendship, come,
Enwreath'd in Virtue's snowy arms,
With magic rhymes the page illume,
And fancy sketch her varied charms—
Which o'er the cares of home has thrown
A thousand blessings, deep engraved,
For every heart she makes her own,
And every friend is free-enslaved.
No Inspiration o'er my pen
Glows with the lightning's vivid spell;
My soul is sad—forgive me then,
My heart's too full the tale to tell!
Yet, if the humblest poet's theme
Be welcome in Eliza's name;
Then, angel, give the cheering gleam,
For thy approving smile is fame!